


Prey Play

by Shadowheartdesigns (shadowkitten)



Series: AU_gust 2020 Writing Challenge Stories [5]
Category: Princess Principal (Anime)
Genre: AU-gust 2020, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Choking, Dark, Expanded one shot, Horror, Not Romance, Other, Stalking, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25891114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowkitten/pseuds/Shadowheartdesigns
Summary: She was as much a predator as Ange, and that piqued her curiosity as much as her hunger.
Relationships: Ange le Carré & Princess | Charlotte, Beatrice & Princess | Charlotte, Dorothy MacBean & Princess | Charlotte
Series: AU_gust 2020 Writing Challenge Stories [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859071
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13
Collections: AUgust 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags.  
> This is not romantic fluff.
> 
> Chapter 1 originally posted as part of the AUgust 2020 writing challenge.

"Only take those no one will miss."

That was the watchword. It was the first, and the last, commandment.

It was easy here. Perhaps too easy. A big city like London was structured like a smooth-walled pyramid above a funnel. The rich and the lucky started on top. The rest had to scramble, using each other for leverage, to get even half-way up. The rest, spiraled down and down.

Ange le Carré had survived here for just over a century. When Paris became too dangerous with revolutionary fervor, she had quietly fled across the Channel. Those in charge in London were quite liberal in their own way. They had only sent one of their oldest and strongest to greet her with an iron grip to her throat, threatening to tear her limb from limb if she got out of line.

One night she had spotted new prey. A young girl, likely 17 years old. The same age Ange had been when she was turned.

The girl was pretty. She had deep blue eyes, lovely fair hair, and smooth skin.Surprisingly smooth, for a child of the streets.

Ange had suspected her of being a prostitute, which had captured her interest at first. It was a legal profession here, so they attracted little attention from the authorities. But, the current wave of moral sentiment ensured that very few people cared. If this pretty young thing turned up dead, who would mind?

She surprised her, though. When darkness fell, this pretty girl didn't dress to attract attention. No, she braided up her hair, and slipped on a dark black cap. Tugged on black trousers and shirt, and went out into the darkness to find windows not properly secured, pockets not minded, even one time an automobile carelessly left idling on an otherwise empty street.

She was as much a predator as Ange, and that piqued her curiosity as much as her hunger.

One night her curiosity led her to follow the girl into the open second story window of a house. The room was a large, empty space. It was formerly a bedroom, perhaps, but it had been some years since it had seen use.

Ange heard a floorboard creak behind her. A hand clamped over her mouth, and she felt the barrel of a pistol pressed against her temple. She was in no way surprised.

"Now," a voice whispered into her ear. "I have you at a disadvantage, I think you'll agree."

Ange could feel the girl's heart thrumming in her chest. Heard her increased rate of breathing. Smelled her fear.

"I am going to remove my hand from your mouth," the girl continued. "When I do so, you will not cry out, nor will you resist me. If you should, I will put a bullet into your brain. Do you understand?"

Ange humored the girl by nodding once.

"Good."

The girl's slender, gloved hand slowly moved away from Ange's lips, then lightly clasped her throat.

"Now tell me, quietly, why you have been following me over the last two weeks?"

"I'm impressed that you noticed," Ange replied evenly. "To be frank, I had first thought of you as a potential victim."

The girl's heartbeat increased, and she gasped. The scent of her fear increased. It was a sweet, piquant bouquet.

"Victim?" The girl asked, unable to keep her voice from wavering.

"A pretty young girl such as yourself, walking alone in London's night? No one to miss you, perhaps."

"What did you intend to do?" the girl asked in a firmer voice.

"That hardly matters now. You clearly are no victim." Ange's voice remained calm.

"It matters a great deal. I have friends in this district. Friends that I would be very upset were they to turn up dead, or missing, or ravaged."

Ange didn't answer.

"You won't say?"

She still did not answer.

"Well. Then we shall make a deal."

"A deal?" Ange wasn't quite able to keep a note of amusement out of her voice.

"Yes. You will not follow me. You will not harm anyone in this district. You will leave me and my friends alone. If you should not, then I shall not hesitate to shoot you."

"Is that all?"

"That is enough, I feel. Now, I will release you. You will stand perfectly still when I do so, and count to five hundred."

"An oddly specific number."

"As you count, I shall leave by the same window I came in by. Once you have finished your count, you may leave by any means you please, so long as you do not make any effort to follow me. Is that understood?"

"Quite clearly."

"Good."

Ange sensed the girl's fear increase as she moved her hand. The pistol was pulled back, though Ange suspected it was still aimed at her back.

"Count," the girl said.

Ange sighed, but complied.

She could sense the girl pulling away from her slowly. She heard her footsteps against the wooden floorboard, and heard when she reached the window. Even heard the sound of a pistol being shoved into a pocket.

She remained still, and counted.

The next evening, Ange made certain to be directly behind the man whose pockets the girl picked.

And she was perched upon the roof of the house she entered.

And she passed her by multiple times that evening, giving her a nod each time.

She did the same the next day.

It was amusing to her, that each time the girl saw Ange, her fear increased. The scent was becoming stronger and sharper. Satisfying. Almost intoxicating.

On the third evening after their confrontation, Ange remained out of sight. Hidden as she followed the girl.

Her fear was even stronger than before.

Over the course of another two nights, the girl's routine gradually returned. Her fear slipped down to the level Ange would expect from a street-smart girl.

Six days after their confrontation, the girl ran into an alley, crouching behind wooden crates. Panting from the exertion. She sat and waited. Listened. When she heard nothing beyond the usual sounds of a London evening, she opened the purse she had grabbed with a thin smile. She stood up, pleased with her haul.

She was thrust against the wall, a hand gripping around her throat, before she even realized that she wasn't alone. She dropped the purse, spilling coins on the moist cobblestones.

"Good evening princess," Ange said evenly.

The girl clawed at Ange's hand, desperately trying to pull free.

"I believe that you had threatened to shoot me if I followed you?"

The girl's fear spiked. Her heart thrummed in her chest.

"Perhaps you ought to have done so. Perhaps it might even have made a difference? Perhaps not."

Ange could tell the girl was close to collapse. That would not do.

"Now, I shall release you. You will not cry out. You will not resist me. You will not make any attempt to flee. I do not need to ask for your compliance, for if you do not I shall simply rip out your throat."

Ange released her grip, though she kept her hand pressed on the girl's sternum, pinning her in place.

The girl didn't scream or beg. Her terror was intense, intoxicating. Yet her expression was defiant.

"Good girl. Now, what is your name?"

"Charlotte," slipped out of the girl's mouth. Her eyes widened in horror. She hadn't intended to speak.

"What a beautiful name. It suits you."

"What ... what are you?"

"Well. Shall I show you?"

Ange leaned in close to her. Charlotte's fear spiked as Ange's lips grazed the delicate skin of her neck. As her lips parted, and as she slowly licked, dragging her rough tongue along her flesh. Tasting for the right spot.

When she found it, she let her needle-sharp fangs press against her, so very lightly. Just enough to draw a shuddering gasp from Charlotte's lips.

It took all of Ange's willpower not to simply tear her open. To rip and guzzle like a feral monster. The sound of Charlotte's fluttering heart, the scent of her overwhelming horror, made resisting the urge difficult.

It took only a little pressure. The fangs sunk in deeply, and Ange felt Charlotte jolt in pain. Already the sweet, coppery tang of the girl's lifeblood tingled her tongue.

When she withdrew her fangs, the blood oozed out of the two punctures, marring the formerly perfect, smooth flesh.

Again, the urge to tear her apart rose. Again, Ange had to fight against monstrous urges.

And then she pressed her lips against Charlotte's wounds, and suckled.

Her blood was sweet with an innocence that Ange hadn't tasted in so long. Street girls had a sour tang to their blood normally. Not Charlotte.

Her utter and abject terror gave a sharp spice to the blood that sent a shiver down Ange's spine. That spice was far, far more powerful, more intoxicating, than it had any right to be.

As Ange drank, she could hear Charlotte's heart first thrum heavily. Then, by degree, weaken. Becoming quieter as she pushed Charlotte closer to oblivion.

Just one more drop. Just one more. It was so delicious.

And yet, too much and she would destroy the girl. Leave her a withered, drained husk.

That would be a waste.

Ange pulled back, giving one last greedy lick to the crimson dribbling out of the two puncture holes. The blood rapidly coagulated, leaving behind two small bumps. They would fade in time, leaving no physical evidence.

Charlotte was limp in Ange's arms. Her eyes were half lidded. Ange had nearly gone too far.

Ange lowered the girl with surprising care, surprising gentleness, to the ground, propping her up against the boxes she had hid behind. Then, she cupped her chin, tilting her head back. Taking a good, close look at her.

Her face was pale. Her lips, half parted with ragged, panting breaths, were bloodless. Her blue eyes had dulled a fraction. After a moment, they were hidden entirely behind lids that fluttered closed.

"Beautiful," Ange whispered.

Then she leapt up to a nearby rooftop, and watched over her where she lay until the impending dawn forced her to flee. It wouldn't do to let a scavenger take the girl now that Ange had claimed her, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

On the fringes of the City of London proper, where the nicer historic districts faded into the run-down slums of the East End, there sat a warehouse that, while not technically abandoned, hadn't been used by its owners in some years. Which was not to say that it wasn't occupied. It had a good number of tenants, though they didn't pay rent for the privilege.

One section of the warehouse was partitioned off by heavy crates and boxes, with a curtain serving as a door. Three sleeping spots were laid out, consisting of ratty, discarded mattresses, threadbare blankets, and sacks of feather and down that were pillows more by name than function.

One of the three was occupied by a young girl with shoulder-length reddish-brown hair. She wore a green dress, itself as ratty and threadbare as the bedding she lay on. A green ribbon tied around her neck was the nicest and best-kept article of clothing she wore.

Her eyes opened slowly, and she sat up with a yawn. She blinked, and glanced at the two empty spots. She pulled herself to her feet, and stepped into worn leather shoes. She peeked out of the curtain doorway.

Light was streaming in from the high windows of the warehouse. It was thin and ruddy, the first light of dawn.

She glanced up and down the corridor, formed from stacks of crates and metal shelves piled with old, rusted goods and blankets hung up as doors or walls.

_Where are they?_ she asked herself.

"Beato," called out a young woman's voice. A curvy brunette came into view. She wore a long green dress and green flat-cap. Her clothes looked new, at least compared to most of the people living here.

Beatrice frowned, but gave the woman a quick wave.

The woman walked over to her, stretching and yawning. "Had a good night. Made a good bit of dosh."

Beatrice nodded once, but gestured at the curtain with her thumb.

"Something wrong, kid?"

Beatrice nodded.

The woman frowned, and peeked through the curtain. "What? Charlotte still out?"

Beatrice nodded again.

"Wouldn't be the first time. I mean, I know you're a worry-wort, but .…"

Beatrice sighed. "Reason to worry, Dorothy." she whispered. Her voice was hoarse and scratchy.

Dorothy shrugged, and passed through the curtain. Beatrice followed her, still frowning.

Dorothy tossed her hat off, and sat down on one of the mattresses. She loosened her boots. "I know, kid. But Charlotte's one of the best. If there's any girl here not to worry about it's her."

Beatrice sat down again with a sigh. "What if something happened?"

Now Dorothy sighed. "We can't worry about that. We just have to keep moving forward, like always."

Beatrice shrugged.

Dorothy kicked her boots to one side, yawning again. "Well, I'm gonna get a few winks. If Lotte's not back by noon, then I'll worry."

As if on cue, the curtain was drawn back, and Charlotte staggered in to the makeshift room.

Her eyes were wide and glazed over. Her face was pale, her lips bloodless. Her hair was in disarray.

"Charlotte!" Beatrice cried out, voice cracking and barely louder than before.

Both she and Dorothy rose to their feet and moved over to the other girl.

"Um," Charlotte started. She blinked, and glanced between the two.

"You get tanked?" Dorothy asked.

Charlotte blinked, and looked at her in confusion.

Beatrice shot a quick glare to Dorothy, before gently leading Charlotte to one mattress and helping her sit.

_What happened?_ Beatrice asked, moving her hands in a quick, efficient series of gestures.

"I," she started. "I don't know. I had it."

"It?" Dorothy asked. She knelt down beside the two, looking concerned.

"Money. It was in my hands. Then ... I don't know. The sunlight woke me up."

_Woke you up?_

Charlotte nodded. "I was sitting down in an alley. I ... I guess I got the money anyway." She blinked again, and pulled a leather purse out of a pocket of her dress.

Dorothy took it, and opened it up. "Not bad," she said appreciatively.

_Are you alright? You look_ .... Beatrice wasn't sure what to sign, so she shrugged.

"I ... I think so."

"Must've decided to stop to get a celebratory toddy or something," Dorothy said, handing the purse back to Charlotte.

"I don't remember that."

"Booze does that. Look, if you woke up like this without remembering details, it was probably that. Good for you, I say."

Beatrice glared at Dorothy. "Not good," she whispered.

Charlotte yawned. "I think I'll be alright. I just need to get some more sleep."

Beatrice nodded. _I will buy us food._

Charlotte gave her some money with a thin smile.

"Gonna get us food?" Dorothy asked. "Get pies if you can."

Beatrice nodded yet again, stood, and walked out the curtain.

Dorothy sat down on her mattress, and watched as Charlotte started to loosen her shoelaces.

"Seriously, you look like you got thoroughly pissed."

"I feel as though I was," Charlotte groaned.

She fumbled with her shoes a bit longer, her expression becoming darker.

"Lemme help," Dorothy offered. She knelt forward, and Charlotte leaned back with a grunt of frustration. "I'm good at getting people out of their clothes," Dorothy said with a grin.

Charlotte managed a thin laugh at this.

With her shoes off, Charlotte laid down on her mattress, and was asleep almost the moment her head touched her pillow.

Dorothy gently covered her, and brushed back her hair. She stared at her for a moment, before settling down on her own bed.

Though it was early morning, the street was lively. A rough neighborhood, it was one Beatrice knew like the back of her hand. Both the people and the streets.

She passed by workmen and beggars, pickpockets and toughs. She had a smile for each one that she knew, and always got a tipped hat or nod in response. The beggars always got a coin or two when she had them.

It was how things worked here. You took from those that had, and protected your own. It wasn't an iron-clad code, but it was enforced quite seriously.

So Beatrice didn't feel any unease going out on her own, passing through the crowds, among men many times her size and strength.

She finally reached the market, an open square where merchants set up stalls to sell food and goods. Where adventerous people of higher class came to "slum it;" eat and buy and hire a whore, then go home and brag about it to their friends.

She waited in line, patently ignoring the young boy that nimbly lifted the purse out of the pocket of the man in front of her. Looked nonchalant, shrugging in ignorance, as the man, red-faced and furious, found he hadn't money to pay for his meal. At least he had the decency not to accuse her of the deed.

"Morning Beatrice," the food seller said, once the man had stormed off.

Beatrice smiled and held up three fingers.

"Three pies?"

Beatrice nodded. She traced the letter P in the air.

"Pork."

She nodded again, and held up three fingers with her other hand.

"Three potatoes, roasted?"

She nodded. Then, after a moment of hesitation, leaned in close. "Dorothy says hi," she said in a scratchy whisper.

The man laughed. "Three brown ales?"

Beatrice nodded, even as her cheeks reddened.

He quoted her a price, which she paid without hesitation. He handed her two brown paper sacks, one with the pies and potatoes, and the other with three amber-tinted glass bottles.

After she had gone around half of the way back to the warehouse where she and her friends made their home, she heard a young man say her name behind her.

She turned, and saw a young tough that she vaguely recognized.

"Hey, was wonderin' if you'd be up for a job?"

Beatrice looked uncertan. She shrugged, and gestured with the paper bags in her hands.

"Not now. Later. Evening, once it gets dark."

Beatrice shifted uncomfortably. Yes, she knew the neighborhood. She knew the streets and the people. She didn't trust the night. She preferred to stay in the safety of the warehouse once the sun went down. She would've preferred Charlotte and Dorothy do the same, though she recognized, however reluctantly, that theirs were nighttime professions.

"What?" Beatrice asked.

"Just a little bit of a tight squeeze, that me mates and I can't quite negotiate. You wriggle on in and nick what you find and you'll earn a quid or two."

Beatrice's eyes widened in surprise. Theft wasn't her speciality. She refused, politely of course, Charlotte's offers to teach her the art. So this offer of a job confused her. Maybe scared her a bit. But, if she could earn some money, so Charlotte didn't have to go out tonight ....

Beatrice nodded.

"Great. Meetcha outside the Ritz at eight."

The Ritz was the rather sarcastic nickname given to the warehouse she and her friends slept in.

Beatrice nodded again.

The tough turned and started off. Beatrice, watching him for just another moment, sighed and turned to walk back home.

"Don't like it," Dorothy said firmly, gesturing with a bottle.

"Neither do I," Charlotte said. She took a bite of pie, and shook her head. "Beato," she said after swallowing, "I don't think you ought to be out after dark."

Beatrice glared at Charlotte. _I can do this,_ she signed hastily. _I think you should rest tonight and sleep and let me go out and do this for a change._

"We don't know that lad, nor his mates. Not that well. I'm not certain if we should trust them."

"I don't, simple as that," Dorothy said.

Beatrice sighed. "Please?"

Dorothy sighed too and shrugged. "I mean ... she is right about one thing: you need to get some rest, Charlotte. The way you looked when you got home .…"

"I ... suppose you are right. But I am worried. It may be a trap."

"That's what I was thinking. Look, I'll tail you, at least for a bit. Alright?"

_I will be alright. I promise. Can you really afford not to work tonight?_

Charlotte relayed this to Dorothy, who nodded. "Yeah. I'll just watch for a bit, long enough to make sure they aren't up to anything, then I can go on to the inn for my shift."

That evening, Beatrice stepped out of the warehouse's main entrance. As usual, the street was just a little darker than it ought, with the nearest gas-lamp unlit. Whether the mechanism had gone out, or the piping, or whether the gas company had simply decided to shut off the flow ... whatever the reason, it was just a bit darker here.

Beatrice shivered, not really from the cold. She glanced toward the street, where she saw Dorothy, in her green dress. The older girl gave her a quick wink, and Beatrice took a deep breath.

" _Oi_ , Bea?"

She turned to the young man that had approached her earlier. She forced a smile, and nodded.

"Right, then. C'mon."

He started off. Beatrice followed, and saw that Dorothy was behind them a few paces. Her resolve increased. She clenched her fists, and moved with just a bit more confidence.

It took a few minutes, ending in a narrow alley that ran behind an abandoned building. A small cluster of young men, and a young woman, knelt down beside a wooden crate.

"So, here's the thing," the man said as he walked over to them. "This here's the space. Even Emmy here's a bit too thick to wriggle in."

"Fuck your thick, Tommy," the girl spat.

"Quiet you," one of the other young men grumbled. "You ain't small enough to get in and that's all there is to it."

She glared at him, but didn't respond.

Beatrice knelt down and examined the gap in the wall. It was a narrow space, near where the wall met the cobble roadway. A section of bricks were missing, and the space beyond was just dark and empty. She questioned how sound the building was.

"So anyway," the man who had led her here said, "all ya gotta do is scramble on in. Rumor says there's a whole mess of abandoned riches there. Jewelry most like, and as I said before, you bring it on out and you get a share."

Beatrice frowned and glanced up at him. "Safe?" she whispered.

The man smirked. "Safe as a London alley at night."

The others chuckled, and Beatrice shrugged. She glanced down the alley, and saw Dorothy peeking around the corner.

Beatrice nodded once, and she saw Dorothy nod in response, then disappear from sight.

She sighed, and examined the gap once more. "Alright," she whispered again.

The man clapped his hands together, and knelt down. "Right, in you go then! Sooner in, sooner out."

Beatrice took a deep breath, and climbed in.

It wasn't as tight as she feared. The brick wall was more a facade, and beyond it quickly opened up into a wider gap. The interior wall had a wide space, almost as though a panel had been cut away. It was no challenge at all to crawl through.

The interior was dimly lit, though Beatrice couldn't see an obvious source for the light. There must have been a window somewhere above where she was that hadn't been boarded up.

The room she was in held old, half-decayed chairs and a wooden oval table that was buckling in the middle. Scraps of carpet below suggested this was once a posh setting.

Slowly, Beatrice walked around the table toward an interior door, the only obvious way in or out.

"Well," she heard a voice say behind her.

She froze, her eyes widening in fear.

"I must say that I am surprised. Perhaps even disappointed."

She turned slowly. A young woman stood beside the oval table. She had fair hair and skin, and blue eyes that were just a bit too clear, too piercing. Almost luminous. The woman moved toward her, silent except for the faint rustling of her black dress.

Beatrice felt her fear increase. She wanted to reach out for the door, to tear it open and run through. To put herself as far away from the woman as she could. Her muscles refused to obey her.

"I had thought that Charlotte would've forbidden you to come."

Beatrice gasped. The woman's gaze was petrifying. She couldn't tear her eyes away, even though each step closer brought her fear into sharper focus. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to fight, to do _something_. Instead, she stood stock still, staring into the woman's eerily beautiful eyes.

"You do know her, yes?"

Beatrice nodded, despite herself.

The woman sighed. "I'd hoped she would care enough to come herself. Perhaps examine this building with the trained eye of a thief. She could've found a way in, yes?"

Again, Beatrice nodded.

The woman reached out, touching Beatrice's cheek. She shivered. Her touch was icy cold, but that wasn't the only cause. There was an almost electric quality, a tingle where her fingertips brushed Beatrice's skin.

"I suppose that I shall have to make due."

Her fingertips slid slowly down Beatrice's cheeks, loosening the shawl she wore over her shoulders. As it fluttered down to the floor, those thin, ice-cold fingers loosened the collar of Beatrice's dress.

Her terror was only matched by an indescribable pleasure. The woman's touch sent waves of sensation that Beatrice had never felt, and despite her instinct to escape, she no longer even tried.

"You are injured," the woman cooed. Her fingertips slid over the scars that marred Beatrice's throat. Beatrice winced, in both physical pain and shame.

"Father," she whispered.

"Hm. Your father did this to you?"

Beatrice nodded.

"How terrible," the woman whispered, though her smile and the glimmer in her eyes spoke of a different emotion entirely.

Her fingers shifted, lifted Beatrice's chin. She leaned in close, close enough that Beatrice could feel her breath on her face. It was a cold breath, foetid, decayed ... reminding her of nothing so much as a charnel house, or graveyard.

Her terror was at its height. She again tried to move. To escape. To pull away from this woman. She couldn't. She could only stare into those deep. piercing, blue eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Dorothy lounged on a sofa, one leg stretched across, the other dangling languidly down. She had a tall glass of light amber liquid in one hand, the other lazily tracing patterns in the red velvet cushion. She wore bloomers and a camisole, nothing else.

The door to the parlor opened, and another woman entered. She had dark hair and thin-rimmed glasses. She wore a rather full dress, and frowned as she caught sight of the other woman.

"Daisy," she lightly chided, "would you mind terribly dressing in a slightly less unsightly manner?"

Dorothy made a dismissive noise. "No rules against it."

She sipped her drink, and the other woman shook her head. "At least move your leg, so that I may sit."

Dorothy sighed, moving her leg to allow the other woman room. "How is it a prude like you becomes a whore anyway?"

The woman's cheeks reddened. "I am neither a prude nor a whore."

"You fuck for pay, right?"

The woman's blush deepened. "I am an entertainer, Daisy."

"Eleanor, you're no such thing."

"Well, my client tonight seemed quite entertained. He gave me rather more than my usual fee." A grin crossed Eleanor's lips, even if the blush stayed on her cheeks.

Dorothy laughed. "As expected. Gentlemen what want class and decoration go to you."

"Decoration? Is decorum the word you're looking for?"

"Mean the same thing, right?" Dorothy said with a wink.

Eleanor shook her head. "In any case, I had a very profitable night tonight. I trust you did as well?"

"Sure, as always." Dorothy sighed, and finished her drink. "But, I ought to get back."

"So soon? It's not even midnight."

"I know, but one of my friends has a job tonight, and ... well, I'm worried for her."

"Hm. What sort of job?"

"Not what we do, that's for sure! Nah, some guys hired her to slip into a tight space and nick something."

"I see. And you'd like to ensure that she's safe?"

"Yeah. I mean, I can't not, you know?"

Eleanor nodded. “I understand, yes. I am surprised you are here at all.”

“Well,” Dorothy shrugged. “Money doesn’t make itself, does it? Rather be doing this than breaking my back in a factory.”

“Yes. I understand that sentiment as well. I hope your friend is doing well.”

“Thanks, I’ll pass the message on to her,” Dorothy said with a smirk.

Dorothy left the tavern by the back door, politely declining the offer of a young gentleman in the alley. She hadn't time for that ... and besides, company policy was to only entertain within the tavern. No street-walkers. They had a reputation to maintain.

Knowing the streets as well as she did, Dorothy made it back to the warehouse in minutes.

She found Charlotte sitting up on her mattress, with a worried expression.

“Not back yet?”

Charlotte shook her head. “No. Dorothy, I should never have let her go!”

Dorothy knelt down beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Calm down, I’m here. I mean, I probably should’ve stayed with her but … I mean, we do need the money.”

Charlotte’s expression darkened. “Money is not worth losing friends.”

Dorothy shrugged, and looked down at the floor. "Don't want to lose her either. Or you. Look, I'll go out and look for her."

"We both shall."

"No, you ought to rest tonight. That's why Beato did this."

"You needn't twist the dagger."

Dorothy frowned. "Look .…"

"No, Dorothy. I'll go out."

"Fine. Not like I can stop you."

Charlotte nodded. "Indeed not."

She moved a small box, and shifted a loose brick. From the gap, she retrieved her revolver.

"Hope you don't have to use that."

"No. But if I must ...."

Charlotte opened the gun. There were three bullets. The only three she had ever found that fit. What she knew of guns was simple: bullets go in the chambers. Pull the trigger. What you aim at dies. If it doesn't, pull the trigger again.

She closed the gun and took a deep breath. "Let's go."

The alley was empty. The toughs that had hired Beatrice before were gone, to who knew where. Dorothy and Charlotte walked over to the place she had last been seen.

Charlotte leaned down. "Here?"

"Yeah," Dorothy said, looking up. It was the backside of an old townhouse. It had seen better days last century. She didn't know anything about it beyond the fact that it had been abandoned for at least twenty years. Truly abandoned, without even squatters. She hadn't ever known why, nor why the city hadn't taken over the building. Presumably someone owned it, but that someone hadn't done anything, beyond letting the building sit and moulder.

"Hm. Well, I can't squeeze through there."

"That's why they wanted Beato," Dorothy remarked. She strolled slowly down the alley.

Charlotte glanced at her. "Did you recognize any of them?"

"I heard the names Tommy and Emmy."

"Emmy? Why would she be mixed up in this?"

"Don't know. Question is, what should we do now?"

"We should try to get in. Perhaps Beato found herself trapped."

"Yeah. You're the entry expert, wanna have a go?"

"I was going to go talk to Emmy, actually. We don't know what happened. Perhaps she succeeded, and they decided to celebrate."

"I suppose. If that happened, you won't find Emmy though."

"Perhaps. Still, I'd like to try."

Dorothy nodded. "Alright. I guess I'll go round to the front of this place, see if I can spot anything."

"I shall meet you there."  
  


Entering a house, abandoned or not, without full information was foolish. That was Charlotte's first rule. A rule that she ought to have instilled in Beatrice. That would have put a stop to this entire affair. She ought to have simply said no. Not allowed Beatrice to take this job.

Charlotte's second rule was to not dwell on mistakes. Were she to dwell, she'd still be wondering what had happened the other night.

Emmy was a street kid, about Charlotte's age. Like Charlotte, and so many others, she had slipped through society's cracks. She'd never been in school. Never had proper parental guidance. She did what she could to survive.

And, as Charlotte had suspected, she found her ambling down a notorious side-street, making eyes at the middle-class gentlemen who were there to slum and whore.

Emmy's eyes widened when she saw Charlotte, and she turned and ran.

Charlotte grumbled, and took off after her. It wasn't much of a chase though, as Emmy made one critical mistake by turning down a blind alley.

She turned, fists clenched, and glared at Charlotte.

"I ain't done nothing to her," she panted.

"Oh, is that so? That is why you panicked before, and now are prepared to fight? Because you didn't do anything to Beatrice."

"Look," Emmy said, relaxing her posture, "I don't know what it was about. I got a fistfull of quid to go out with Tommy and them boys, to make Bea wriggle into that place. I dunno what she was about, but that's the truth."

"She? The person who hired you?"

"Yeah. High-class bird, about our age. Approached me quiet like the other night. Thought she wanted me for another reason, but ... well, I ain't gonna say no to gilt, yeah?"

Charlotte sighed. "I suppose not. And you don't know anything else? Did Beatrice make it in? Make it out?"

"She got in, sure. That was all I was there for. Make her think all was up and up, yeah? I buggered off after that, so if she got back out I never seen it."

"So she may still be there. Where is Tommy?"

"Don't know, don't care. Ain't like he's a friend or lover or anything. I know his name, seen him about, nothing more than that."

"I see. Well. Thank you for your time."

Charlotte started to turn, and Emmy cleared her throat. "That's it, then? Just thanks?"

Charlotte rolled her eyes, turning back to her. "Nothing is free in this world, is it?"

Emmy shook her head, a lopsided grin forming on her face. She held a hand out. "Death an' shit is about it."

Charlotte fished out a few coins, and placed them in Emmy's palm. "Is that sufficient?"

Emmy's smile widened. "More than. I'll do you more than just talk for that."

"That will not be necessary," Charlotte replied, evenly as she could.

The house's door and ground floor windows were all boarded up. The brick facade was crumbling in front, just as it was behind. Vines snaked up the front, snapping off if Dorothy put any pressure at all on them.

She frowned. If she could climb up, she figured she could get in through an upper story window. The glass was smashed out of each, though metal glazing bars were intact. Still, if she could reach it, she might just be able to pry one open.

She glanced down the street. There were people, but none so much as glanced in her direction.

"I ought to wait for Charlotte," Dorothy muttered, as she walked up to the wall. She sighed, and felt along the surface. It was pitted and broken, and it wasn't difficult to find hand- and foot-holds. She took a deep breath, and hoisted herself up.

She glanced around again, just to make sure there weren't any cops or busy-bodies. A small cluster of kids were watching her from the shadows across the street, but that didn't bother her.

"Ought to wait," she repeated, as she pulled herself up. Dust, and larger chunks, fell down, pried loose as she climbed. She winced, certain that she'd find herself on the street with a broken back. Somehow, she managed to make it up to the nearest window.

With a last grunt, she hauled herself up on the window sill. Narrow, slanted, nearly rotten, it just barely held her weight. She wasted no time thinking about this, or how high up she was. Since there were no glass shards, she grabbed glazing bars firmly with both hands, and pushed up.

The window wasn't jammed, or locked, and opened far easier than she had hoped.

With a grateful sigh, she scrambled in.

The room was dark, only fitful, dim light from outside giving any definition to the interior. The floor was wood, and looked soild. A dusty chest stood along one wall, but it was otherwise empty.

Dorothy tip-toed over to the chest and opened it. It was unlocked, but empty other than cobwebs. She closed it again, quietly. If there were someone other than Beatrice here, she didn't want them to be alerted.

The door leading out of the room was unlocked as well.

"This is too easy," she muttered. "Those kids could've got in this way. If they had tried."

She stepped out into a wide corridor. A wide staircase led down, two narrower flights leading up. Just beyond the stairs was a second door. Two more corridors led deeper into the house, parallel with the staircase.

Dorothy moved slowly and quietly to the stairs, glancing down. Thin, dusty light streamed down from somewhere above. She decided to search this floor first, since she was already here. Deciding whether to go up or down would come later.

The other room was empty. The window here was as easy to open. Too easy, she mused. This was all too easy.

She walked out of the room, and started down the nearer corridor. It was dark enough she could barely see anything. She moved very slowly, with her hands on both walls, inching along. Feeling for doors or other features.

She stopped when she felt a door frame. She took another deep breath, and slowly felt along the door. It was smooth, intact, wooden. In better shape than she would expect.

She gripped the knob, and turned slowly. No resistance. She pushed, and the door slowly opened with a creak.

This room was not empty.

There was a bed here. It was sturdy and didn't look very old. It was also made, with fresh linen. A dresser, also sturdy, stood beside it.

Dorothy took a step into the room, and saw movement. Her heart fluttered, and she clenched her hands into fists.

Shadows. A small figure illuminated by a thin beam of light that streamed in from a crack in the ceiling.

Dorothy stood stock-still. Letting her eyes adjust to the thin light.

The figure moved slightly. It was a girl.

"Beato?!"

She stared at Dorothy with wide, unfocused eyes.

Dorothy ran over to her, kneeling in front of her. "Beato? You ... are you alright?"

Beatrice blinked, but didn't answer. She just stared.

Dorothy suppressed a shudder. "What happened to you?"

She reached out, gently stroking Beatrice's cheek. "You're ice-cold. But ... I'm just glad that I found you."

She wrapped her arms around Beatrice, drawing her in close. Holding her tight. Willing the warmth back into her.

Beatrice blinked again, and turned her eyes to Dorothy. Her neck. Her arms wrapped around Dorothy's body.

"Beato," Dorothy murmured quietly.

A smile crossed Beatrice's lips. They parted. She opened her mouth. Two tiny, needle-sharp fangs pressed against the skin of Dorothy's neck ....


	4. Chapter 4

Ange walked up the stairs. Calmly, as she was in no hurry.

She knew the house had been entered. Someone had climbed up, scrambled in. Just as she had hoped. Perhaps that girl Charlotte. Perhaps some other party searching for the child. Beatrice she had called herself.

She hadn't intended for the child to become involved, but it didn't bother her. If she found someone other than Charlotte, she wouldn't let that bother her either. They would be swiftly dealt with. More or less permanently, depending on the threat they represented.

She found the door to Beatrice's room open. No surprise.

Glancing in, she found something unexpected.

A curvy brunette lay very still on the floor beside the bed. Dorothy. That is what Beatrice had called her, wasn't it?

The girl was on her hands and knees, her face pressed against Dorothy's neck.

"Beatrice," Ange chided.

She rose up and turned. Her eyes were wide with guilt and terror. Her cheeks and lips were stained crimson, and red dribbled down her chin and over the front of her dress.

Blood drained out of Dorothy's body from a ragged gash that had been torn from her neck. Her face was frozen in an expression of terror.

Ange shook her head, walking slowly over to Beatrice, who whimpered and scurried back.

"What did I tell you?" Ange asked, kneeling down beside her.

Beatrice swallowed, and blinked, looking into Ange's eyes.

"You were told to wait. Certainly not to feed."

Beatrice trembled slightly.

"They are so fragile," Ange said, gesturing at Dorothy's body. "You must take care with them, lest you break them."

Beatrice cast a guilty look at the corpse, then turned back to Ange.

"You do understand what you've done?"

Beatrice shrugged.

"Had you been careful, you could've preserved it alive. Satiated your immediate hunger, and had it later to feed on again."

Beatrice's expression turned remorseful.

"Instead, you've killed it, and wasted much of its blood in the process."

Beatrice shrugged.

"Now," Ange began.

She grabbed Beatrice's cheeks faster than she could react, gripping hard enough to draw a whimper of pain and fear. She snarled, leaning in close with bared fangs and eyes blazing with dangerous rage.

"If you ever do this again, I shall rip you limb from limb, and preserve you in helpless agony for a century!"

Beatrice tried to draw back, but Ange's grip was unbreakable.

"Do you understand me?" Ange asked, in a marginally calmer voice.

Beatrice hurriedly nodded.

Ange tossed her to the floor, splattering blood over her dress.

Beatrice looked up at Ange in sheer terror, not daring to move.

"Well," Ange sighed, shifting around to the unmarred side of Dorothy's body. "It'd be a shame to waste what's left. If there is any."

She leaned down and bit into Dorothy's neck. She pulled away, a few dribbles of blood running down her cold, pale skin.

"Go on and finish it up," she scolded.

Beatrice's eyes widened, and she returned to her hands and knees, mindless of the blood staining her clothes, nuzzling in to the gaping wound and returning to her feast.

Ange, despite her previous rage, smiled fondly.

Charlotte stared up at the house. Both windows on the first floor were open.

"Damn you, Dorothy."

She glanced up and down the street. Well, it was possible that she was mistaken. She hadn't really gone to look at the house before, had she? They might have been open the entire time.

Either way, this was such an obvious trap that she wouldn't have fallen for it. Had she been thinking clearly, she would've refused Beatrice's request. She would've gone herself, and likely got those toughs to admit that they'd been paid to hire the girl. Likely to bait her into coming.

She shook her head, and patted the pocket that held her revolver. A revolver she ought to have actually used. That girl, the one that had stalked her. It had to be her. Had to be. And now, she wished that she had simply put a bullet in her back when she had the chance. That house had been empty. No one would've heard. Even if they had, no one would've come to look. No one would've cared.

Just one bullet. Just one, and none of this would've happened.

Well, she wouldn't make that mistake twice.

It had been easy to scale the wall. The brick facade was crumbling, but was solid enough to hold her weight. The vines were weaker, but she found them useful to help steady her at times. She climbed quickly and without any other concern but reaching the open window.

She climbed in, and found an empty room. It looked and felt abandoned, though the window had been open long enough that any mustiness had been aired out.

She moved quietly to the door, and pressed her ear against it. Listening. She heard no sounds, so she tried the door knob. It turned freely, and the door opened without noise.

The corridor beyond was dark. A staircase led down and up to one side, dimly lit by dusty light dribbling in from above. An open door down a corridor leading deeper into the house was open. A similar dim light spilled out from this door.

She drew her revolver, clutching it tightly in one hand. She took a deep breath to try to relax. It didn't work.

She moved forward slowly. Though her eyes were becoming adopted to the lighting, she couldn't see anything further down the corridor than the open door. She didn't like it, but she continued forward. Beatrice and Dorothy were around somewhere, most likely. Hopefully in the open room

She stopped and pressed herself against the wall beside the door. Taking another deep breath, she peeked in.

There was a bed in the room, freshly made with new linen. A dresser stood beside it. The house wasn't abandoned.

There was a dark, shadowy shape on the floor. The thin light highlighted curves, green. A person.

She stepped into the room, to get a better look. And that is when her heart stopped beating, as her world collapsed around her.

"Dorothy!"

Charlotte ran over to the body, kneeling beside her. Her face was pale. Her eyes were open, but dull. Unseeing. Dry blood, still sticky, spread out along the floor. And her neck was torn open on one side.

Charlotte shook. Rage and fear blended together. Her breath came in quick, ragged gasps. She clenched her free hand into a fist, and relaxed it.

She took a deep breath in, held it, and let it out slowly. She reached out, her hand still shaking, and gently closed Dorothy's eyes. Gently ran a finger down her cheek.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I'll ... I'll kill who did this."

"Will you?"

Charlotte rose and spun, raising her revolver with both hands.

It was her. Just outside the door. _Her_. The girl with the piercing blue eyes, fair hair, pale skin.

"Why did you kill her?"

"Ange. Call me Ange. It's my name."

"Why?!"

"You want to know before you kill me?"

Charlotte nodded once, curt and sharp.

"I didn't."

"Don't lie, bitch! Who else could it be?"

"Hm." A slow smile spread across Ange's face. "Who else, indeed?"

She glanced to her side, gesturing. Beatrice, slowly and uncertainly, walked over to Ange's side. She looked in to the room, and up at Charlotte.

"Beato! Come here. Slowly. Don't try to stop her, or I will kill you."

Ange's smile widened. "You think she'll listen to you? She is mine now." She glanced down at Beatrice with a smile, running a fingertip along her cheek. "Aren't you, little one?"

Beatrice looked up at her with a fond smile.

Charlotte shuddered. She tried to keep her aim steady, but her hands were shaking. "What," she stuttered. "What did you do to her?"

Ange looked back at Charlotte, her expression unchanged. "I freed her. Didn't I?"

"Yes mistress," Beatrice replied. Her voice was clear and strong, as though she had never been disfigured.

Charlotte gasped. She took an unsteady step backward. Away from Ange and Beatrice. Away from Dorothy. Away ... but there was nowhere to go. No windows in this room. Only walls, and a door where Ange and Beatrice stood.

"I," she started. Her mouth moved soundlessly several more times. With no idea what to say.

"You. Yes, you." Ange shook her head, and moved into the room. Beatrice followed right behind her.

"Stay away!"

"Or what? Will you finally grow a spine and shoot me?"

Charlotte took a deep breath. Yes, that was the answer, wasn't it? She had lost Dorothy. Beatrice was ... what? It didn't matter. She could figure that out. She let her breath out slowly, and jerked on the trigger.

The explosion echoed in the small room. Smoke poured out of the barrel of the gun. Charlotte winced at the unexpectedly strong kickback.

Ange had jolted as the bullet grazed her shoulder. A thick, brownish fluid leaked out of the wound. Blood, thick with corruption. It quickly congealed.

Charlotte's eyes widened in horror.

"Pity, I don't seem to have died," Ange said casually. She took another step forward.

Charlotte fired again. The bullet hit Ange's chest. As before, corrupted blood oozed out of the wound, before congealing.

Ange's smile turned into a wide, wolfish grin. "I still seem to have not died."

A strangled squeal of terror escaped Charlotte's lips, as she pulled the trigger a third time. The hammer hit an empty chamber.

Ange moved forward faster than Charlotte's eyes could track, grabbing her hands and pulling them apart, twisting them hard enough to make Charlotte cry out in pain. The gun clattered to the floor.

"I tire of this," Ange snarled.

Charlotte struggled. Briefly. She was pressed mercilessly back against the wall. Her wrists hurt where Ange's cold hands gripped them.

"Now, let's end the charade, shall we?"

She leaned forward, without saying more, and sank her fangs into the side of Charlotte's neck.

Charlotte screamed, still fighting. Trying vainly to escape.

Her struggles weakened. As did her heartbeat, and her breathing. Her strength, her very life, was being sucked away.

Her eyes became unfocused. Her vision blurry. Her eyelids started to droop closed. Her knees became rubbery.

Ange let her slump down along the wall, pulling away when she reached the floor. "Come here," she said quietly.

Beatrice was at her side in a moment, her wide eyes locked onto the blood that dribbled out of the two puncture wounds in Charlotte's neck.

Ange smiled at the girl. "You want to feed?"

Beatrice nodded eagerly.

"Then do so. Feast on your former friend's lifeblood."

Beatrice didn't need to be told twice. She leaned in, greedily suckling.

Charlotte barely felt her lips against her neck. Barely felt anything at all. Her mind was nearly blank. Her strength was sapped. With the last bit of energy draining out of her, her eyes finally slipped closed, and her head lulled to the side.

"Stop," Ange said.

Beatrice ignored her.

Ange frowned. "Stop! Pull away from her."

A low growl sounded in the back of Beatrice's throat.

Ange grabbed the back of her hair, pulling her away fiercely enough that Beatrice cried out in pain.

"Do not defy me," she hissed.

Beatrice's expression turned fearful. She shook. "Sorry," she whimpered.

Ange released her, and Beatrice scrambled back, eyes still wide.

"Well," Ange said, turning back to Charlotte. "She is dying."

"I," Beatrice stuttered. "Sorry, I .…"

"No, you needn't apologize. I knew it would happen. I desired it. Do you not remember how it was for you?"

Beatrice frowned. She shook her head slowly.

"To make another, I must drain her to the cusp of death. I did with you, without quite intending to. I have with her, entirely intending to. Now watch, little one. Watch as I create your sister."

As Beatrice stared in rapt fascination, Ange raised her arm up to her lips. She bit into her wrist, making two precise wounds. Blood, rich and red but shot through with dark black strands of foulness, oozed out.

She held her arm over Charlotte's face, tipping it just enough to allow several drops of blood to land on her lips.

Charlotte jolted. Her lips began moving. Her tongue darted out, licking at the blood.

Ange smiled back at Beatrice, before letting several more drips of blood touch Charlotte's lips.

The girl's eyes snapped open, as she eagerly licked the blood.

Ange laughed quietly. She lowered her arm, and Charlotte, unbidden, grabbed it with both hands. She clamped her lips to the wounds in Ange's wrists. She suckled greedily.

"That's it," Ange cooed, stroking Charlotte's hair tenderly. "Drink your fill."

Charlotte's cheeks turned ruddy. Her skin regained its color. She moaned in pleasure.

And when Ange pulled her arm away, Charlotte's eyes shone with unnatural light. Her blood-stained lips parted. She bared her newly-grown fangs. And she gazed up into Ange's eyes with unblemished, worshipful adoration.

Ange smiled in triumph. "Welcome to unlife, my princess."


End file.
